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POETIC  LOCALITIES 


OF 

CAMBEIDGE. 


Efitttli  bg 


W.  J.  STILLMAN. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  HELIOTYPES  FROM  NATURE. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknob  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co. 

1876.  ' 


TRANSFERRED  FROM  THK 

OEPARTMENT  of  FHOT06RAPNS 


PREFACE 


HE  ravages  of  modern  improvement  bid  fair  to  destroy  within  not 


many  years  the  few  things  amongst  us  which  our  poets  have  made 
classical.  In  the  hope  that  I may  preserve  them  for  another  generation, 
I have  photographed  some  of  those  which  belong  to  Cambridge.  This  I 
have  taken  on  myself  to  do,  though  no  child  of  hers,  but  only  a vagabond 
guest  made  free  of  her  fields  and  memories,  and  not  unknown  in  some 
of  the  houses  which  are  her  pride,  that  I may  thereby  pay  my  tribute 
of  reverent  admiration  where  the  muse  has  given  her  highest  favors. 

Of  my  subjects,  one,  the  Chestnut-Tree,  is  preserved,  a maimed  beggar 
for  the  grace  of  Cambridge  city  fathers,  only  on  account  of  the  poet’s 
consecration.  l\Iay  the  chrism  be  more  potent,  even,  for  the  others,  and 
Time  do  his  gentlest  with  sacred  roof  and  tree  ! 


W.  J.  STILLMAN. 


Cambridge,  1874. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Gajibrel-Roofed  House  . . . . 

To  A Child 

The  Village  Blacksmith 

An  Indian  Sdjijier  Reverie.  I.  . . 

An  Indian  Summer  Reverie.  II.  . . 

The  Oak  • 

The  River  Charles 

Beaver  Brook  

Under  the  Willows 

Cambridge  Churchyard 

Al  Fresco 

Under  the  Washington  Elm  . . . . 


Page 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 11 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  . . . . 21 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ....  23 

James  Russell  Lowell 25 

James  Russell  Lowell 27 

James  Russell  Lowell 29 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  . . . . 31 

James  Russell  Lowell 33 

James  Russell  Lowell 35 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 37 

James  Russell  Lowell 39 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 41 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

[Reproduced  in  Heliotype  from  Photographs  by  W.  J.  Stillman.] 

The  Old  Holmes  House Frontispiece. 

Longfellow’s  House ....  Face  page  21 

The  Old  Chestnut-Tree,  Brattle  Street 23 

The  Marshes 25 

Harvard  College  27 

The  Oaks,  Waverley 29 

Charles  Eiver  . . 31 

Beaver  Brook 33 

The  Willows 35 

The  Old  Churchyard 37 

Elmwood 39 

The  Washington  Elm -H 


FKOM  “THE  GAMBREL-EOOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS  OUTLOOK.” 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

My  birthplace,  the  home  of  my  childhood  and  earlier  and  later  boyhood,  has 
within  a few  months  passed  out  of  the  ownership  of  my  family  into  the 
hands  of  that  venerable  Alma  Mater  who  seems  to  have  renewed  her  youth,  and  has 
certainly  repainted  her  dormitories.  In  truth,  when  I last  revisited  that  familiar 
scene  and  looked  upon  the  Jlammantia  moenia  of  the  old  halls,  “ Massachusetts  ” 
with  the  dummy  clock-dial,  “ Harvard  ” with  the  garrulous  belfry,  little  “ Holden  ” 
with  the  sculptured  unpunishable  cherubs  over  its  portal,  and  the  rest  of  my  early 
brick-and-mortar  acquaintances,  I could  not  help  saying  to  myself  that  I had  lived 
to  see  the  peaceable  establishment  of  the  Red  Republic  of  Letters. 

Many  of  the  things  I shall  put  down  I have  no  doubt  told  before  in  a fragmentary 
w^ay,  how  many  I cannot  be  quite  sure,  as  I do  not  very  often  read  my  own  prose 
works.  But  when  a man  dies  a great  deal  is  said  of  him  which  has  often  been  said 
in  other  forms,  and  now  this  dear  old  house  is  dead  to  me  in  one  sense,  and  I want 
to  gather  up  my  recollections  and  wind  a string  of  narrative  round  them,  tying  them 
up  like  a nosegay  for  the  last  tribute  : the  same  blossoms  in  it  I have  often  laid  on 
its  threshold  while  it  was  still  living  for  me. 

AVe  Americans  are  all  cuckoos,  — we  make  our  homes  in  the  nests  of  other  birds. 
I have  read  somewhere  that  the  lineal  descendants  of  the  man  who  carted  off  the 
body  of  William  Rufus,  with  Walter  Tyrrel’s  arrow  sticking  in  it,  have  driven  a 
cart  (not  absolutely  the  same  one,  I suppose)  in  the  New  Forest,  from  that  day  to 
this.  I don’t  quite  understand  Mr.  Ruskin’s  saying  (if  he  said  it)  that  he  could  n’t 
get  along  in  a country  where  there  were  no  castles,  but  I do  think  we  lose  a great 
deal  in  living  where  there  are  so  few  permanent  homes.  You  will  see  how  much  I 
parted  with  which  was  not  reckoned  in  the  price  paid  for  the  old  homestead. 

I shall  say  many  things  which  an  uncharitable  reader  might  find  fault  with  as 
personal.  I should  not  dare  to  call  myself  a poet  if  I did  not ; for  if  there  is  any- 
thing that  gives  one  a title  to  that  name,  it  is  that  his  inner  nature  is  naked  and  is 

11 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


not  ashamed.  But  there  are  many  such  things  I shall  put  in  words,  not  because 
they  are  personal,  but  because  they  are  human,  and  are  born  of  just  such  experiences 
as  those  who  hear  or  read  what  I say  are  like  to  have  had  in  greater  or  less  measure. 

I find  myself  so  much  like  other  people  that  I often  wonder  at  the  coincidence.  It 
was  only  the  other  day  that  I sent  out  a copy  of  verses  about  my  great-grand- 
mother’s picture,  and  I was  surprised  to  find  how  many  other  people  had  portraits 
of  their  great-grandmothers  or  other  progenitors,  about  which  they  felt  as  I did 
about  mine,  and  for  whom  I had  spoken,  thinking  I was  speaking  for  myself  only. 
And  so  I am  not  afraid  to  talk  very  freely  with  you,  my  precious  reader  or  listener. 
You  too.  Beloved,  were  born  somewhere  and  remember  your  birthplace  or  your 
early  home ; for  you  some  house  is  haunted  by  recollections ; to  some  roof  you  have 
bid  farewell.  Your  hand  is  upon  mine,  then,  as  I guide  my  pen.  Your  heart 
frames  the  responses  to  the  litany  of  my  remembrance.  For  myself  it  is  a tribute 
of  affection  I am  rendering,  and  I should  put  it  on  record  for  my  own  satisfaction, 
were  there  none  to  read  or  to  listen. 

I hope  you  will  not  say  that  I have  built  a j^illared  portico  of  introduction  to  a 
humble  structure  of  narrative.  For  when  you  look  at  the  old  gambrel-roofed  house, 
you  will  see  an  unpretending  mansion,  such  as  very  possibly  you  were  born  in  your- 
self, or  at  any  rate  such  a place  of  residence  as  your  minister  or  some  of  your  well- 
to-do  country  cousins  find  good  enough,  but  not  at  all  too  grand  for  them.  AYe 
have  stately  old  Colonial  palaces  in  our  ancient  village,  now  a city,  and  a thriving 
one,  — square-fronted  edifices  that  stand  back  from  the  vulgar  highway,  with  folded 
arms,  as  it  were  ; social  fortresses  of  the  time  when  the  twilight  lustre  of  the  throne 
reached  as  far  as  our  half-cleared  settlement,  with  a glacis  before  them  in  the  shape 
of  a long  broad  gravel-walk,  so  that  in  King  George’s  time  they  looked  as  formidably 
to  any  but  the  silk-stocking  gentry  as  Gibraltar  or  Ehrenbreitstein  to  a visitor  with- 
out the  password.  We  forget  all  this  in  the  kindly  welcome  they  give  us  to-day ; 
for  some  of  them  are  still  standing  and  doubly  flunous,  as  we  all  know.  But  the 
gambrel-roofed  house,  though  stately  enough  for  college  dignitaries  and  scholarly 
clergymen,  was  not  one  of  those  old  Tory,  Episcopal-church-goer’s  strongholds. 
One  of  its  doors  opens  directly  upon  the  green,  always  called  the  Common ; the 
other,  facing  the  south,  a few  steps  from  it,  over  a paved  foot-walk,  on  the  other 
side  of  which  is  the  miniature  front  yard,  bordered  with  lilacs  and  syringas.  The 
honest  mansion  makes  no  pretensions.  Acce.ssible,  companionable,  holding  its  hand 
out  to  all,  comfortable,  respectable,  and  even  in  its  way  dignified,  but  not  imposing, 
not  a house  for  his  Alajesty’s  Counsellor,  or  the  Eight  Eeverend  successor  of  Him 
who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head,  for  something  like  a hundred  and  fifty  years  it 
has  stood  in  its  lot,  and  seen  the  generations  of  men  come  and  go  like  the  leaves  of 
the  forest.  I passed  some  pleasant  hours,  a few  years  since,  in  the  Regi.stry  of 
Deeds  and  the  Town  Records,  looking  up  the  history  of  the  old  house.  How  tho.se 
dear  friends  of  mine,  the  antiquarians,  for  whose  grave  councils  I compose  my 

12 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS  OUTLOOK. 


features  on  the  two  rare  Thursdays  when  I am  at  liberty  to  meet  them,  in  whose 
human  herbarium  the  leaves  and  blossoms  of  past  generations  are  so  carefully  spread 
out  and  pressed  and  laid  away,  would  listen  to  an  expansion  of  the  following  brief 
details  into  an  Historical  Memoir  ! 

The  estate  was  the  third  lot  of  the  eighth  “ Squadron  ” (whatever  that  might  he), 
and  in  the  year  1707  was  allotted  in  the  distribution  of  undivided  lands  to  “Mr. 
ffox,”  the  Eeverend  Jabez  Fox,  of  Woburn,  it  maybe  supposed,  as  it  passed  from 
his  heirs  to  the  first  Jonathan  Hastings ; from  him  to  his  son,  the  long-remembered 
College  Steward;  from  him  in  the  year  1792  to  the  Eeverend  Eliphalet  Pearson, 
Professor  of  Hebrew  and  other  Oriental  languages  in  Harvard  College,  whose  large 
personality  swam  into  my  ken  when  I was  looking  forward  to  my  teens ; from  him 
to  the  progenitors  of  my  unborn  self. 

I wonder  if  there  are  any  such  beings  nowadays  as  the  great  Eliphalet,  with  his 
large  features  and  conversational  hasso  profundo,  seemed  to  me.  His  very  name 
had  something  elephantine  about  it,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  house  shook  from 
cellar  to  garret  at  his  footfall.  Some  have  pretended  that  he  had  Olympian  aspira- 
tions, and  wanted  to  sit  in  the  seat  of  Jove  and  bear  the  academic  thunderbolt  and 
the  aegis  inscribed  Christo  et  Ecclesioe.  It  is  a common  weakness  enough  to  wish  to 
find  one’s  self  in  an  empty  saddle  ; Cotton  Mather  was  miserable  all  his  days,  I am 
afraid,  after  that  entry  in  his  Diary  : “ This  Day  Dr.  Sewall  was  chosen  President, 
for  his  Piety." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  men  of  the  older  generation  look  bigger  and  more 
formidable  to  the  boys  whose  eyes  are  turned  up  at  their  venerable  countenances 
than  the  race  which  succeeds  them,  to  the  same  boys  grown  older.  Everything  is 
twice  as  large,  measured  on  a three-year-old’s  three-foot  scale  as  on  a thirty-year- 
old’s  six-foot  scale ; but  age  magnifies  and  aggravates  persons  out  of  due  propor- 
tion. Old  people  are  a kind  of  monsters  to  little  folks ; mild  manifestations  of 
the  terrible,  it  may  be,  but  still,  with  their  white  locks  and  ridged  and  grooved 
features,  wliich  those  horrid  little  eyes  exhaust  of  their  details,  like  so  many  micro- 
scopes, not  exactly  what  human  beings  ought  to  be.  The  middle-aged  and  young 
men  have  left  comparatively  faint  impressions  in  my  memory,  but  how  grandly 
the  procession  of  the  old  clergymen  who  filled  our  pulpit  from  time  to  time,  and 
passed  the  day  under  our  roof,  marches  before  my  closed  eyes  ! At  their  head  the 
most  venerable  David  Osgood,  the  unajestic  minister  of  Medford,  with  massive 
front  and  shaggy  overshadowing  eyebrows  ; following  in  the  train,  mild-eyed  John 
Foster  of  Brighton,  with  the  lambent  aurora  of  a smile  about  his  pleasant  mouth, 
which  not  even  the  “ Sabbath  ” could  subdue  to  the  true  Levitical  aspect ; and 
bulky  Charles  Stearns  of  Lincoln,  author  of  “ The  Ladies’  Philosophy  of  Love.  A 
1 oem.  1/97.  (how  I stared  at  him  ! he  was  the  first  living  person  ever  pointed 
out  to  me  as  a poet) ; and  Thaddeus  Mason  Harris  of  Dorchester,  (the  same  who, 
a poor  youth,  trudging  along,  staff  in  hand,  being  then  in  a stress  of  sore  need, 

13 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


found  all  at  once  that  somewhat  was  adhering  to  the  end  of  his  stick,  which  some- 
what proved  to  be  a gold  ring  of  price,  bearing  the  words,  “ God  speed  tliee, 
hriend ! ”)  already  in  decadence  as  I remember  him,  with  liead  slanting  forward 
and  downward  as  if  looking  for  a place  to  rest  in  after  his  learned  labors  ; and  that 
other  Thaddeus,  the  old  man  of  West  Cambridge,  who  outwatched  the  rest  so  long 
after  they  had  gone  to  sleep  in  their  own  churchyards,  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if 
he  meant  to  sit  up  until  the  morning  of  the  resurrection  ; and  bringing  up  the 
rear,  attenuateil  but  vivacious  little  Jonathan  Homer  of  Hewton,  who  was,  to  look 
upon,  a kind  of  expurgated,  reduced  and  Americanized  copy  of  Voltaire,  hut  very 
unlike  him  in  wickedness  or  wit.  The  good-humored  junior  member  of  our  family 
always  loved  to  make  him  happy  by  setting  him  chirruping  about  Miles  Cover- 
dale’s  Version,  and  the  Bishop’s  Bible,  and  how  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Sir  Isaac 
(Coffin)  about  something  or  other,  and  how  Sir  Isaac  wrote  back  that  he  rvas  very 
much  pleased  with  the  contents  of  his  letter,  and  so  on  about  Sir  Isaac,  ad  libitum, 
— for  the  admiral  was  his  old  friend,  and  he  was  proud  of  him.  The  kindly  little 
old  gentleman  was  a collector  of  Bibles,  and  made  himself  believe  he  thought  he 
should  publish  a learned  Commentary  some  day  or  other ; but  his  friends  looked 
for  it  only  in  the  Greek  Calends, — say  on  the  31st  of  April,  when  that  should 
come  round,  if  you  would  modernize  the  phrase.  I recall  also  one  or  two  excep- 
tional and  infrequent  visitors  with  perfect  distinctness  : cheerful  Elijah  Kellogg,  a 
lively  missionary  from  the  region  of  the  Quoddy  Indians,  with  much  hopeful  talk 
about  Sock  Bason  and  his  tribe  ; also  poor  old  Poorhouse-Parson  Isaac  Smith,  his 
head  going  like  a China  mandarin,  as  he  discussed  the  possibilities  of  the  escape 
of  that  distinguished  captive  whom  he  spoke  of  under  the  name,  if  I can  reproduce 
phonetically  its  vibrating  nasalities,  of  “General  Mmbongaparty,  — a name  sug- 
gestive to  my  young  imagination  of  a dangerous,  loose-jointed  skeleton,  threatening 

us  all  like  the  armed  figure  of  Death  in  my  little  New  England  Primer 

To  come  back  to  the  old  house  and  its  former  tenant,  the  Professor  of  Hebrew 
and  other  Oriental  languages.  Fifteen  years  he  lived  with  his  family  under  its 
roof.  I never  found  the  slightest  trace  of  him  until  a few  years  ago,  when  I 
cleaned  and  brightened  with  pious  hands  the  brass  lock  of  “ the  study,  which 
had  for  many  years  been  covered  with  a thick  coat  of  paint.  On  that  I found 
scratched,  as  with  a nail  or  fork,  the  following  inscription  : 

E PE 

Only  that  and  nothing  more,  but  the  story  told  itself.  Master  Edward  Pearson, 
then  about  as  high  as  the  lock,  was  disposed  to  immortalize  himself  in  monumental 
brass,  and  had  got  so  far  towards  it,  when  a sudden  interruption,  probably  a smart 
box  on  the  ear,  cheated  him  of  his  fame,  except  so  far  as  this  poor  record  may 
re.scue  it.  Dead  long  ago.  I remember  him  well,  a grown  man,  as  a visitor  at  a 
later  period  ] and,  for  some  reason,  I recall  him  in  the  attitude  of  the  Colossus  of 

14 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS  OUTLOOK. 

Ehodes,  standing  full  before  a generous  wood-fire,  not  facing  it,  but  quite  the  con- 
trary, a perfect  picture  of  the  content  afforded  by  a blazing  hearth  contemplated 
from  that  point  of  view,  and,  as  the  heat  stole  through  his  person  and  kindled  his 
emphatic  features,  seeming  to  me  a pattern  of  manly  beauty.  What  a statue  gal- 
lery of  posturing  friends  we  all  have  in  our  memory  ! The  old  Professor  himself 
sometimes  visited  the  house  after  it  had  changed  hands.  Of  course,  my  recollec- 
tions are  not  to  be  wholly  trusted,  but  I always  think  I see  his  likeness  in  a 
profile  face  to  be  found  among  the  illustrations  of  Eees’s  Cyclopmdia.  (See  Plates, 
Vol.  IV.,  Plate  2,  Painting,  Diversities  of  the  Human  Face,  Fig.  4.) 

And  now  let  us  return  to  our  chief  picture.  In  the  days  of  my  earliest  remem- 
brance, a row  of  tall  Lombardy  poplars  mounted  guard  on  the  western  side  of  the 
old  mansion.  Wliether,  like  the  cypress,  these  trees  suggest  the  idea  of  the 
funeral  torch  or  tlie  monumental  spire,  whether  their  tremidous  leaves  make  us 
afraid  by  sympathy  with  their  nervous  thrills,  whether  the  faint  balsamic  smell  of 
tlieir  leaves  and  their  closely  swatlied  limbs  have  in  them  vague  hints  of  dead 
Pharaohs  stiffened  in  their  cerements,  I will  not  guess ; but  they  always  seemed 
to  me  to  give  an  air  of  sepulchral  sadness  to  the  house  before  which  they  stood  sen- 
tries. Hot  so  with  the  row  of  elms  which  you  may  see  leading  up  towards  the 
western  entrance.  I think  the  patriarch  of  them  all  went  over  in  the  great  gale 
of  1815  ; I know  I used  to  shake  the  youngest  of  them  with  my  hands,  stout  as  it 
is  now,  with  a trunk  that  would  defy  the  bully  of  Crotoiia,  or  the  strong  man 
whose  liaison  with  the  Lady  Delilah  proved  so  disastrous. 

The  College  plain  would  be  nothing  without  its  elms.  As  the  long  hair  of  a 
woman  is  a glory  to  her,  so  are  these  green  tresses  that  bank  themselves  against 
the  sky  in  thick  clustered  masses  the  ornament  and  the  pride  of  the  classic  green. 
You  know  the  “'Washington  elm,”  or  if  you  do  not,  you  had  better  rekindle  your 
patriotism  by  reading  tlie  inscription,  wliicli  tells  you  that  under  its  shadow  the 
great  leader  first  drew  his  sword  at  the  head  of  an  American  army.  In  a line 
with  that  you  may  see  two  others : the  coral  fan,  as  I always  called  it  from 
its  resemblance  in  form  to  that  beautiful  marine  growth,  and  a third  a little 
farther  along.  I have  heard  it  said  that  all  three  were  planted  at  the  same 
time,  and  that  the  difference  of  their  growth  is  due  to  the  slope  of  the  ground,  — 
the  Washington  elm  being  lower  than  either  of  the  others.  There  is  a row  of 
elms  just  in  front  of  the  old  house  on  the  south.  When  I was  a child  the 
one  at  the  southwest  corner  was  struck  by  lightning,  and  one  of  its  limbs  and 
a long  ribbon  of  bark  torn  away.  The  tree  never  fully  recovered  its  symmetry 
and  vigor,  and  forty  years  and  more  afterwards  a second  thunderbolt  crashed 
upon  it  and  set  its  heart  on  fire,  like  those  of  the  lost  souls  in  the  Hall  of 
Eblis.  Heaven  had  twice  blasted  it,  and  the  axe  finished  what  the  lightning 
had  begun 

Beyond  the  garden  was  “ the  field,”  a vast  domain  of  four  acres  or  thereabout, 

* 15 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


by  the  measurement  of  after  years,  bordered  to  the  north  by  a fathomless 
chasm, — the  ditch  the  base-ball  players  of  the  present  era  jump  over;  on  the 
east  by  unexplored  territory ; on  the  south  by  a barren  enclosure,  where  the 
red  sorrel  proclaimed  liberty  and  equality  under  its  drapeau  rouge,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  a vegetable  commune  where  all  were  alike,  poor,  mean, 
sour,  and  uninteresting;  and  on  the  west  by  the  Common,  not  then  disgraced 
by  jealous  enclosures,  which  make  it  look  like  a cattle-market.  Beyond,  as  I 
looked  round,  were  the  Colleges,  the  meeting-house,  the  little  square  market- 
house,  long  vanished ; the  burial-ground  where  the  dead  Presidents  stretched 
their  weary  bones  under  epitaphs  stretched  out  at  as  full  length  as  their  sub- 
jects ; the  pretty  church  where  the  gouty  Tories  used  to  kneel  on  their  has- 

socks ; the  district  school-house,  and  hard  by  it  Ma’am  Hancock’s  cottage, 
never  so  called  in  those  days,  but  rather  “ tenfooter  ” ; then  houses  scattered 
near  and  far,  open  spaces,  the  shadowy  elms,  round  hilltops  in  the  distance, 
and  over  all  the  great  bowl  of  the  sky.  Mind  you,  this  was  the  world,  as  I 
first  knew  it ; terra  veteribus  cognita,  as  Mr.  Arro'wsmith  w’ould  have  called  it, 
if  he  had  mapped  the  universe  of  my  infancy. 

But  I am  forgetting  the  old  house  again  in  the  landscape.  The  Avorst  of  a 
modern  stylish  mansion  is,  that  it  has  no  place  for  ghosts.  I watched  one 

building  not  long  since.  It  had  no  proper  garret,  to  begin  Avith,  only  a sealed 

interval  betAveen  the  roof  and  attics,  where  a spirit  could  not  be  accommodated, 
unless  it  Avere  flattened  out  like  Eavel,  Brother,  after  the  millstone  had  fallen 
on  him.  There  Avas  not  a nook  or  a corner  in  the  Avhole  house  fit  to  lodge 
any  respectable  ghost,  for  every  part  was  as  open  to  observation  as  a literary 
man’s  character  and  condition,  his  figure  and  estate,  his  coat  and  his  counte- 
nance, are  to  his  (or  her)  Bohemian  Majesty  on  a tour  of  inspection  through 
his  (or  her)  subjects’  keyholes. 

Now  the  old  house  had  Avainscots,  behind  Avhich  the  mice  were  ahvays 
scampering  and  squeaking  and  rattling  doAvn  the  plaster,  and  enacting  family 
scenes  and  parlor  theatricals.  It  had  a cellar  Avhere  the  cold  slug  clung  to  the 
walls,  and  the  misanthropic  spider  withdrew  from  the  garish  day ; AAdiere  the 
green  mould  loved  to  groAv,  and  the  long  white  potato-shoots  Avent  feeling  along 
the  floor,  if  haply  they  might  find  the  daylight ; it  had  great  brick  pillars, 
always  in  a cold  sweat  with  holding  up  the  burden  they  had  been  aching 
under  day  and  night  for  a century  and  more ; it  had  sepulchral  arches  closed 
by  rough  doors  that  hung  on  hinges  rotten  Avith  rust,  behind  which  doors,  if 
there  AA^as  not  a heap  of  bones  connected  with  a mysterious  disappearance  of 
long  ago,  there  Avell  might  have  been,  for  it  was  just  the  place  to  look  for 
them.  It  had  a garret,  very  nearly  such  a one  as  it  seems  to  me  one  of  us 
has  described  in  one  of  his  books ; but  let  us  look  at  this  one  as  I can  repro- 
duce it  from  memory.  It  has  a flooring  of  laths  with  ridges  of  mortar  squeezed 

16 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS  OUTLOOK. 


up  between  them,  which  if  you  tread  on  you  will  go  to  — the  Lord  have  mercy 
on  you ! where  will  you  go  to  1 — the  same  being  crossed  by  narrow  bridges 
of  boards,  on  which  you  may  put  your  feet,  but  with  fear  and  trembling. 
Above  you  and  around  you  are  beams  and  joists,  on  some  of  which  you  may 
see,  when  the  light  is  let  in,  the  marks  of  the  conchoidal  clippings  of  the 
broadaxe,  showing  the  rude  way  in  which  the  timber  was  shaped  as  it  came, 
fidl  of  sap,  from  the  neighboring  forest.  It  is  a realm  of  darkness  and  thick 
dust,  and  shrouddike  cobwebs  and  dead  things  they  wrap  in  their  gray  folds. 
For  a garret  is  like  a sea-shore,  where  wrecks  are  thrown  up  and  slowly  go  to 
pieces.  There  is  the  cradle  which  the  old  man  you  just  remember  was  rocked 
in ; there  is  the  ruin  of  the  bedstead  he  died  on ; that  ugly  slanting  contri- 
vance used  to  be  put  under  his  pillow  in  the  days  when  his  breatli  came 
hard ; there  is  his  old  chair  with  both  arms  gone,  symbol  of  the  desolate  time 
when  he  had  nothing  earthly  left  to  lean  on;  there  is  tlie  large  wooden  reel 
which  the  blear-eyed  old  deacon  sent  the  minister’s  lady,  who  thanked  him 
graciously,  and  twirled  it  smilingly,  and  in  fitting  season  bowed  it  out  decently 
to  the  limbo  of  troublesome  conveniences.  And  there  are  old  leather  port- 
manteaus, like  stranded  porpoises,  their  mouths  gaping  in  gaunt  hunger  for  the 
food  with  which  they  used  to  be  gorged  to  bulging  repletion ; and  old  brass 
andirons,  waiting  until  time  shall  revenge  them  on  their  paltry  substitutes,  and 
they  shall  have  their  own  again,  and  bring  with  them  the  fore-stick  and  the 
back-log  of  ancient  days ; and  the  empty  churn,  with  its  idle  dasher,  which 
the  Nancys  and  Phoebes,  who  have  left  their  comfortable  places  to  the  Bridgets 
and  Norahs,  used  to  handle  to  good  purpose ; and  the  brown,  shaky  old  spin- 
ning-wheel, which  was  running,  it  may  be,  in  the  days  when  they  were  hanging 
the  Salem  witches. 

Under  the  dark  and  haunted  garret  were  attic  chambers  which  themselves  had 
histories.  On  a pane  in  the  northeastern  chamber  may  be  read  these  names  : 
“ John  Tracy,”  “ Eobert  Roberts,”  “ Thomas  Prince  ” ; “ Stultus  ” another  hand  had 
added.  When  I found  these  names  a few  years  ago  (wrong  side  up,  for  the  window 
had  been  reversed),  I looked  at  once  in  the  Triennial  to  find  them,  for  the  epithet 
showed  that  they  were  probably  students.  I found  them  all  under  the  years  1771 
and  1773.  Does  it  please  their  thin  ghosts  thus  to  be  dragged  to  the  light  of  dayl 
Has  “ Stultus  ” forgiven  the  indignity  of  being  thus  characterized  1 

The  southeast  chamber  was  the  Library  Hospital.  Every  scholar  should  have  a 
book  infirmary  attached  to  his  library.  There  should  find  a peaceable  refuge  the 
many  books,  invalids  from  their  birth,  which  are  sent  “ with  the  best  regards  of 
the  Author  ” ; the  respected,  but  unpresentable  cripples  which  have  lost  a cover ; 
the  odd  volumes  of  honored  sets  which  go  mourning  all  their  days  for  their  lost 
brother ; the  school-books  which  have  been  so  often  the  subjects  of  assault  and 
battery,  that  they  look  as  if  the  police  court  must  know  them  by  heart ; these  and 

17 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


still  more  the  pictured  story-books,  beginning  with  Mother  Goose  (which  a dear  old 
friend  of  mine  has  just  been  amusing  his  philosophic  leisure  with  turning  most 
ingeniously  and  happily  into  the  tongues  of  Virgil  and  Homer),  will  be  precious 
mementos  by  and  by,  when  children  and  grandchildren  come  along.  What  would 
1 not  give  for  that  dear  little  paper-bound  quarto,  in  large  and  most  legible  type,  on 
certain  pages  of  which  the  tender  hand  that  was  the  shield  of  my  infancy  had 
crossed  out  with  deep  black  marks  something  awful,  probably  about  Bears,  such 
as  once  tare  two-and-forty  of  us  little  folks  for  making  faces,  and  the  very  name  of 
■which  made  us  hide  our  heads  under  the  bedclothes 

The  rooms  of  the  second  story,  the  chambers  of  birth  and  death,  are  sacred  to 
silent  memories. 

Let  us  go  down  to  the  ground-floor.  I should  have  begun  with  this,  but  that 
the  historical  reminiscences  of  the  old  house  have  been  recently  told  in  a most 
interesting  memoir  by  a distinguished  student  of  our  local  history.  I retain  my 
doubts  about  those  “ dents  ” on  the  floor  of  the  right-hand  room,  “ the  study  ” of 
successive  occupants,  said  to  have  been  made  by  the  butts  of  the  Continental 
militia’s  firelocks,  but  this  was  the  cause  the  story  told  me  in  childhood  laid  them 
to.  That  military  consultations  were  held  in  tliat  room  when  the  house  was  Gen- 
eral Ward’s  headquarters,  that  the  Provincial  generals  and  colonels  and  other  men 
of  war  there  planned  the  movement  which  ended  in  the  fortifying  of  Bunker’s  Hill, 
that  AVarren  slept  in  the  house  the  night  before  the  battle,  that  President  Langdon 
went  forth  from  the  western  door  and  prayed  for  God’s  blessing  on  the  men  just 
setting  forth  on  their  bloody  expedition,  — all  these  things  have  been  told,  and 
perhaps  none  of  them  need  be  doubted. 

But  now  for  fifty  years  and  more  that  room  has  been  a meeting-ground  for  the 
platoons  and  companies  which  range  themselves  at  the  scholar’s  word  of  command. 
Pleasant  it  is  to  think  that  the  retreating  host  of  books  is  to  give  place  to  a still  larger 
army  of  volumes,  which  have  seen  service  under  the  eye  of  a great  commander.  For 
here  the  noble  collection  of  him  so  freshly  remembered  as  our  silver-tongued  orator, 
our  erudite  scholar,  our  honored  College  President,  our  accomplished  statesman,  our 
courtly  ambassador,  are  to  be  reverently  gathered  by  the  heir  of  his  name,  himself 
not  unworthy  to  be  surrounded  by  that  august  assembly  of  the  wise  of  all  ages  and 
of  various  lands  and  languages. 

Could  such  a many-chambered  edifice  have  stood  a century  and  a half  and  not 
have  had  its  passages  of  romance  to  bequeath  their  lingering  legends  to  the  after- 
time 1 There  are  other  names  on  some  of  the  small  window-panes,  which  must 
have  had  young  flesh-and-blood  owners,  and  there  is  one  of  early  date  which 
elderly  persons  have  whispered  was  home  by  a fair  woman,  whose  graces  made  the 
house  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  the  youth  of  that  time.  One  especially  — you  will 
find  the  name  of  Fortescue  Vernon,  of  the  class  of  1780,  in  the  Triennial  Catalogue 
— was  a favored  visitor  to  the  old  mansion  ; but  he  went  over  seas,  I think  they  told 


18 


THE  GAMBREL-ROOFED  HOUSE  AND  ITS  OUTLOOK. 


me,  and  died  still  young,  and  tlie  name  of  tlie  maiden  which  is  scratched  on  the 
window-pane  was  never  changed.  I am  telling  the  story  honestly,  as  I remember 
it,  hut  I may  have  colored  it  unconsciously,  and  the  legendary  pane  may  he  broken 
before  this  for  aught  I know.  At  least,  I have  named  no  names  except  the  beau- 
tiful one  of  the  supposed  hero  of  the  romantic  story. 

It  was  a great  happiness  to  have  been  born  in  an  old  house  haunted  by  such  rec- 
ollections, with  harmless  ghosts  walking  its  corridors,  with  fields  of  waving  grass 
and  trees  and  singing  birds,  and  that  vast  territory  of  four  or  five  acres  around  it 
to  give  a child  the  sense  that  he  was  born  to  a noble  principality.  It  has  been  a 
great  pleasure  to  retain  a certain  hold  upon  it  for  so  many  years  ; and  since  in  the 
natural  course  of  things  it  must  at  length  pass  into  other  hands,  it  is  a gratification 
to  see  the  old  place  making  itself  tidy  for  a new  tenant,  like  some  venerable  dame 
who  is  getting  ready  to  entertain  a neighbor  of  condition.  Not  long  since  a new 
cap  of  shingles  adorned  this  ancient  mother  among  the  village  — now  city  — man- 
sions. She  has  dressed  herself  in  brighter  colors  than  she  has  hitherto  worn,  so 
they  tell  me,  within  the  last  few  days.  She  has  modernized  her  aspects  in  several 
ways  ; she  has  rubbed  bright  the  glasses  through  which  she  looks  at  the  Common 
and  the  Colleges  ; and  as  the  sunsets  shine  upon  her  through  the  flickering  leaves 
or  the  wiry  spray  of  the  elms  I remember  from  my  childhood,  they  will  glorify  her 
into  the  aspect  she  wore  when  President  Holyoke,  father  of  our  long  since  dead 
centenarian,  looked  upon  her  in  her  youthful  comeliness. 

The  quiet  corner  formed  by  this  and  the  neighboring  residences  has  changed 
less  than  any  place  I can  remember.  Our  kindly,  polite,  shrewd,  and  humorous 
old  neighbor,  who  in  former  days  has  served  the  town  as  constable  and  auctioneer, 
and  who  bids  fair  to  become  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  the  city,  was  there  when  I 
was  born,  and  is  living  there  to-day.  By  and  by  the  stony  foot  of  the  great  Uni- 
versity will  plant  itself  on  this  whole  territory,  and  the  private  recollections  which 
clung  so  tenaciously  and  fondly  to  the  place  and  its  habitations  will  have  died  with 
those  who  cherished  them. 

Shall  they  ever  live  again  in  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  them  here  below  1 
What  is  this  life  without  the  poor  accidents  which  made  it  our  own,  and  by  which 
we  identify  ourselves  1 Ah  me  ! I might  like  to  be  a winged  chorister,  but  still 
it  seems  to  me  I should  hardly  be  quite  happy  if  I could  not  recall  at  will  the 
Old  House  with  the  Long  Entry,  and  the  White  Chamber  (where  I wrote  the  first 
verses  that  made  me  known,  with  a pencil,  starts  pede  in  uno,  pretty  nearly),  and 
the  Little  Parlor,  and  tlie  Study,  and  the  old  books  in  uniforms  as  varied  as  those 
of  the  Ancient  and  Honorable  Artillery  Company  used  to  be,  if  my  memory  serves 
me  right,  and  the  front  yard  with  the  stars  of  Bethlehem  growing,  flowerless, 
among  the  grass,  and  the  dear  faces  to  be  seen  no  more  there  or  anywhere  on  this 
earthly  place  of  farewells. 


19 


s 


K 3 


FROM  “TO  A CHILD.” 


BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
NCE,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls. 


One  whom  memory  oft  recalls. 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 

And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a burning  belt. 

Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs. 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares. 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread ; 

Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom. 

Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 


21 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


“I  T~NDER  a spreading  chestnut-tree 
The  village  smithy  stands  ; 

The  smith,  a mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 


His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long. 
His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can. 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face. 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 


Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow  ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge. 
With  measured  beat  and  slow. 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell. 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge. 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church. 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 

He  hears  the  parson  pmy  and  preach. 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice. 

Singing  in  the  village  choir. 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

23 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise  ! 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 
How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  — rejoicing,  — sorrowing. 

Onward  through  life  he  goes  ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done. 

Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend. 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 


24 


FEOM  “AN  INDIAN-SUMMEE  EEVEEIE.” 


Wlio  cannot  in  their  vaiious  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light. 

Who  sees  in  them  hut  levels  brown  and  bare  ; 

Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 
On  them  its  largess  of  variety. 

For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  wonders  rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green. 

O’er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet ; 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen. 
There,  darker  growths  o’er  hidden  ditches  meet ; 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd. 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 


BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


I. 


EAR  marshes  ! vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 


25 


FROM  “AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE.” 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

II. 

r I "^HERE  gleams  my  native  village,  dear  to  me, 

-L  Though  higher  change’s  waves  each  day  are  seen. 
Whelming  fields  famed  in  boyhood’s  history. 

Sanding  with  houses  the  diminished  green  ; 

There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time  defies. 
Stand  square  and  stiff  the  Muses’  factories  ; — 

How  with  my  life  knit  up  is  every  well-known  scene  ! 


27 


# 


THE  OAK. 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


~TT7"nAT  gnarled  stretch,  what  dejrth  of  shade,  is  his  ! 

' V There  needs  no  crown  to  mark  the  forest’s  king  ; 
How  in  his  leaves  outshines  full  summer’s  bliss  ! 

Sun,  storm,  rain,  dew,  to  him  their  tribute  bring. 
Which  he  with  such  benignant  royalty 
Accepts,  as  overpayeth  what  is  lent ; 

All  nature  seems  his  vassal  proud  to  be. 

And  cunning  only  for  his  ornament. 


IIow  towers  he,  too,  amid  the  billowed  snows. 

An  um[uelled  exile  from  the  summer’s  throne. 
Whose  plain,  uncinctured  front  more  kingly  shows. 
Now  that  the  obscuring  courtier  leaves  are  flown. 
Ills  boughs  make  music  of  the  winter  air. 

Jewelled  with  sleet,  like  some  cathedral  front 
Where  clinging  snow-flakes  with  (juaint  ait  repair 
The  dints  and  furrows  of  time’s  envious  brunt. 

How  doth  his  patient  strength  the  rude  March  wind 
I’ersuade  to  seem  glad  lireaths  of  summer  breeze. 
And  win  the  soil  that  fain  woulil  bo  unkind. 

To  swell  his  revenues  with  proud  increase  ! 

He  is  the  gem  ; and  all  the  land.scajie  wide 
(So  doth  his  grandeur  isolate  the  sense) 

Seems  but  the  setting,  worthless  all  beside. 

An  empty  socket,  were  he  fallen  thence. 


So,  from  oft  converse  with  life’s  wintry  gales. 

Should  man  learn  how  to  clasp  with  tougher  roots 
'The  inspiring  earth  ; — how  otherwise  avails 
The  leaf-creating  sap  that  sunward  shoots  ? 


29 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OE  CAMBRIDGE. 


So  every  year  that  falhs  with  noiseless  flake 
Should  fill  old  scars  up  on  the  stormward  side, 

And  make  hoar  age  revered  for  age’s  sake, 

Not  for  traditions  of  youth’s  leafy  pride. 

So,  from  the  pinched  soil  of  a churlish  fate. 

True  hearts  compel  the  sap  of  sturdier  growth. 

So  between  earth  and  heaven  stand  simply  great. 
That  these  shall  seem  but  their  attendants  both  ; 

For  nature’s  forces  with  obedient  zeal 

Wait  on  the  rooted  faith  and  oaken  will  ; 

As  quickly  the  pretender’s  cheat  they  feel. 

And  tm-n  mad  Pucks  to  flout  and  mock  him  still. 

Lord  ! all  thy  works  ai'e  lessons,  — each  contains 
Some  emblem  of  man’s  all-containing  soul ; 

Shall  he  make  fruitless  all  thy  glorious  pains. 
Delving  within  thy  grace  an  eyeless  mole  ? 

Make  me  the  least  of  thy  Dodona-grove, 

Cause  me  some  message  of  thy  truth  to  bring. 

Speak  but  a word  through  me,  nor  let  thy  love 
Among  my  boughs  disdain  to  perch  and  sing. 


;o 


. 


TO  THE  EIVEE  CHAELES. 

BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

River  1 that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling. 

Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

1 have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me.  Silent  River  ! 

Many  a lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver  ; 

I can  give  thee  hut  a song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I have  watched  thy  current  glide. 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter. 

When  I saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I have  felt  my  heart  heat  lighter. 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I love  thee. 

Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee. 

And  thy  waters  disappear. 

Friends  I love  have  dwelt  beside  thee. 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

31 


rOETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


More  than  this  ; — thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 
And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I fan  the  living  embers 
On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

’T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River  ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  : 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


32 


BEAVER  BROOK. 


BY  JAMES  BUSSELL  LOWELL. 

USHED  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill. 


And,  minuting  the  long  day’s  loss. 
The  cedar’s  shadow,  slow  and  stUl, 

Creeps  o’er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley’s  cup, 

The  aspen’s  leaves  are  scarce  astir  ; 

Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond’s  brink. 

From  ’neath  the  arching  barberry-stems. 

My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 

Beneath  a bony  buttonwood 

The  mill’s  red  door  lets  forth  the  din  ; 

The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued. 

Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent’s  strength  is  here  ; 

Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 

Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear. 

And  gently  waits  the  miller’s  will. 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 
Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound. 
Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace. 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge  round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 
The  quivering  millstones  hum  and  whirl. 

Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 


3.3 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


But  Slimmer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice, 

To  see  how  Beauty  underlies 
Forevermore  each  fonn  of  Use. 

And  more  : methought  I saw  that  flood, 

Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals. 

Thick,  here  and  there,  with  human  hlood. 

To  turn  the  world’s  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there. 

Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 
Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 
Moves  every  day’s  machinery. 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might. 

No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb. 

Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth 
Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play. 

Fresh  blood  in  Time’s  shrunk  veins  make  mirth. 
And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 


34 


FROM  “UNDER  THE  WILLOWS.” 

BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

Among  tliem  one,  ail  ancient  willow,  spreads 

Eight  balanced  limbs,  springing  at  once  all  round 
His  deep-ridged  trunk  with  upward  slant  diverse. 

In  outline  like  enormous  beaker,  fit 

For  hand  of  Jotun,  where  ’mid  snow  and  mist 

He  holds  unwieldy  revel.  This  tree,  spared, 

I know  not  by  what  grace,  — for  in  the  blood 
Of  our  New  World  subduers  lingers  yet 
Hereditary  feud  with  trees,  they  being 
(They  and  the  red-man  most)  our  fathers’  foes,  — 

Is  one  of  six,  a willow  Pleiades, 

The  seventh  fallen,  that  lean  along  the  brink 
Where  the  steep  upland  dijis  into  the  marsh. 

Their  roots,  like  molten  metal  cooled  in  flowing. 

Stiffened  in  coils  and  runnels  down  the  bank. 

The  friend  of  all  the  winds,  wide-armed  he  towers 
And  glints  his  steely  aglets  in  the  sun, 

Or  whitens  fitfully  with  sudden  bloom 
Of  leaves  breeze-lifted,  much  as  when  a shoal 
Of  devious  minnows  wheel  from  where  a pike 
Lurks  balanced  ’neath  the  lily-pads,  and  whirl 
A rood  of  silver  bellies  to  the  day. 


35 


FEOM  “CAMBPJDGE  CHURCHY AED.” 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

OUR  ancient  diurcb  ! its  lowly  tower, 
Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 

Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 
Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire  ; 

It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye. 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane. 

High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky. 

Has  faded  o’er  the  plain. 

Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 
Their  vigil  on  the  green  ; 

One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep. 

The  dead  that  lie  between  ; 

And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near. 

Their  music’s  mingling  waves. 

They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 
Leans  on  the  uaiTow  graves. 


37 


FEOM  ‘'AL  FEESCO.” 

BY  JAMES  RTJSSELL  LOWELL. 

The  dandelions  and  buttercups 

Gild  aU  the  lawn  ; the  drowsy  bee 
Stumbles  among  the  clover-tops. 

And  summer  sweetens  all  but  me  ; 

Away,  unfruitful  lore  of  books, 

For  whose  vain  idiom  we  reject 
The  soul’s  more  native  dialect. 

Aliens  among  the  birds  and  brooks. 

Dull  to  interpret  or  conceive 
What  gospels  lost  the  woods  retrieve  ! 
Away,  ye  critics,  city-bred. 

Who  set  man-traps  of  thus  and  so. 

And  in  the  first  man’s  footsteps  tread. 

Like  those  who  toil  through  drifted  snow  ! 
Away,  my  poets,  whose  sweet  spell 
Can  make  a garden  of  a cell  ! 

I need  ye  not,  for  I to-day 

Will  make  one  long  sweet  verse  of  play. 

Snap,  chord  of  manhood’s  tenser  strain  ! 
To-day  I will  be  a boy  again  ; 

The  mind’s  pursuing  element, 

Like  a bow  slackened  and  unbent, 

In  some  dark  corner  shall  be  leant. 

The  robin  sings,  as  of  old,  from  the  limb  ! 
The  catbird  croons  in  the  lilac-bush  ! 
Through  the  dim  arbor,  himself  more  dim. 
Silently  hops  the  hermit-thrush. 

The  withered  leaves  keep  dumb  for  him  ; 
The  irreverent  buccaneering  bee 
Hath  stormed  and  rifled  the  nunnerj’’ 

Of  the  lilv,  and  scattered  the  sacred  floor 
39 


POETIC  LOCALITIES  OF  CAMBRIDGE. 


With  haste-dropt  gold  from  shrine  to  door ; 
There,  as  of  yore, 

The  rich,  milk-tingcing  Imttercup 
Its  tiny  jiolished  urn  holds  up. 

Filled  with  ripe  summer  to  tlie  edge. 

The  sun  in  his  own  wine  to  pledge  ; 

And  our  tall  elm,  this  huudredth  year 
Doge  of  our  leafy  Venice  here. 

Who,  with  an  annual  ring,  doth  wed 
The  blue  Adriatic  overhead. 

Shadows  with  his  palatial  mass 
The  deep  canals  of  tlowing  grass. 

O unestranged  hiids  and  bees  ! 

O face  of  nature  always  true  ! 

O never-imsympathizing  trees  ! 

0 never-rejecting  roof  of  blue. 

Whose  rash  disherison  never  falls 
On  us  unthinking  prodigals. 

Yet  who  convictest  all  our  ill. 

So  grand  and  unajipeasable  ! 
klethinks  my  heart  from  each  of  these 
Plucks  part  of  childhood  hack  again. 

Long  there  imprisoned,  as  the  breeze 
Doth  every  hidden  odor  seize 
Of  wood  and  water,  hill  and  plain. 

Once  more  am  I admitted  peer 
In  the  upper  house  of  Nature  here. 

And  feel  through  all  my  j)ulses  run 
The  royal  blood  of  breeze  and  sun. 

Upon  these  elm-arched  solitudes 
No  hum  of  neighbor  toil  intrudes  ; 

The  only  hammer  that  I hear 
Is  wielded  by  the  woodpecker. 

The  single  noisy  calling  his 
In  all  our  leaf-hid  Sybaris  ; 

The  good  old  time,  close-hidden  here. 
Persists,  a loyal  cavalier. 

While  Roundheads  prim,  with  point  of  fox. 
Probe  wainscot-chink  and  empty  box  ; 

Here  no  hoarse-voiced  iconoclast 
Insults  thy  statues,  royal  Past ; 

Myself  too  prone  the  axe  to  wield, 

1 touch  the  silver  side  of  the  shield 
With  lance  reversed,  and  challenge  peace, 

A willing  convert  of  the  trees. 


40 


UXDER  THE  WASHINGTOX  ELM. 


Our  fathers  gathered  in  arms,  and  swore 
They  would  follow  the  sign  their  banners  bore. 
And  fight  till  the  land  was  free. 

Half  of  their  woik  was  done, 

Half  is  left  to  do,  — 

Cambridge,  and  Concord,  and  Le.xington  ! 

When  the  battle  is  fought  and  won. 

What  shall  be  told  of  you  ? 

Hark  ! — ’t  is  the  south-wind  moans,  — 

Who  are  the  martjTS  dowm  ? 

Ah,  the  manow  was  true  in  your  children’s  bones 
That  sprinkled  with  blood  the  cursed  stones 
Of  the  murder-haunted  town  ! 

What  if  the  storm-clouds  blow  ? 

Wliat  if  the  green  leaves  fall  ? 

Better  the  crashing  tempest’s  throe 
Than  the  army  of  worms  that  gnawed  below  ; 
Trample  them  one  and  all  ! 

Then,  when  the  battle  is  won. 

And  the  land  from  traitors  free. 

Our  children  shall  tell  of  the  strife  begun 
When  Liberty’s  second  April  sun 

Was  bright  on  our  brave  old  tree  ! 


April  27,  1801. 


BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  IIOLME.S. 


IGHTY  years  have  passed,  and  more. 
Since  under  the  brave  old  tree 


41 


